


Of Ghostly Thistles

by Headwig1010



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bittersweet, Canonical Character Death, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hopeful Ending, Male-Female Friendship, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:20:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28738653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Headwig1010/pseuds/Headwig1010
Summary: Dís' losses echo in her footsteps and in her heart, as they do in Bilbo's.They help each other heal.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Of Ghostly Thistles

**Author's Note:**

> A small gift for a Tumblr buddy, I hope you enjoy it as well! 😊

She has his eyes; those achingly blue, cutting to the quick eyes that _seered_ through you, your soul laid bare should you dare meet her gaze.

(But hers were softer then his had been, their sharpness less jagged, less raw. Oh, she could still cut you down with just a look of course; but, when they went to the pond once a week to feed the waterfowl, they were almost gentle as she watched them play.)

(There was always extra bread, ' _accidentally_ ' buttered and spread with jam so Bilbo couldn't give it to the birds. And so had little choice but to eat it himself, it wouldn't do to be _wasteful_ after all.)

She had his hair; a mane of almost violent black, long and decorated with braided metal, kingly in its flair but heavy with an ancient, stone-deep nobility.

(But hers was better kept then his had been, a hundred strokes with his mother's brush, lovingly restored by her as they both sat by the fire, the crackling of the burning wood the only sound for hours on end.)

(The brush was still gentle against Bilbo's own curls, even if the hand that held it was different then it had been all those years ago, the gentleness was the same.)

She had his voice; a low, rumbling sound, a rock rolling down the mountain side, heralding the coming avalanche of anger or, far more rarely, of laughter. It was asture, strong and didn't hesitate nor stutter.

(But hers was gentler then his had been; for it had a soothing quality only years of lullabies could infuse, soft and reassuring as he rocked on the carpet, the raging storm outside sounding _far_ too much like Smaug's roar.)

(The book was old, the pages torn and covered in childish scribbles but Belladonna had double underlined Bilbo's favourite stories; Dís had them all memorized within a week.)

She had his strength; the calm, controlled power of someone who had worked all their life in humble, unthanked roles with frames born into silks but who had been forced to labour in stained aprons.

(But hers was a subtler strength then his had been; the one that drove you to put one foot in front of the other even after everything had been destroyed. The strength to remain kind in the face of such abject loss, of a grief beyond name, to plant a seed in the cracked stone and hope it may yet grow.)

(The neglected garden was gradually being brought back into order, the Gamgees ever helpful but Dís tended to one patch by herself, the metal trellis her own design, the tomatoes already growing well; Bilbo was ever so fond of them after all.)

He had his father's love of comfort, his father's fastidious nature, a love of things orderly and proper. A Gentlehobbit through and through, who could spend a rainy afternoon curled in an armchair with a book, and think it far superior to any title or acclaim.

(But he was also his mother's son; he also had her courage, her wonder, her thirst for the big, wide world. It was this spirit that had him take in the wandering Dwarrowdam, that had them rebuild together from the rubble of their old lives, transforming those ruins into a home.)

(The book was coming along well, the sun spilling through the once locked shutters into the room as he carefully wrote his tale. The world would remember Thorin; his eyes, his hair, his voice and his strength. But not only him but also his two brilliant, shining nephews, their mischief and their bravery, there and back again.)

The first edition was dedicated to Dís, the book carefully wrapped in the bottom of their picnic basket, tucked under their sandwiches, home-grown tomato and cheese, two each. The water was calm, the waterfowl fed, the breeze lightly ruffling their well-brushed hair as Bilbo withdrew the book, brushed the crumbs from his fingers and began to read aloud.

Dís wrapped her arm around his shoulders, as Bilbo brought her brother and her sons back to life, their laughter dancing faintly in the wind.

(And her smile? That was _all_ hers.)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos welcome! 🌼


End file.
